


shakespearean tragedies for the modern day

by blasphemyincarnate, lieyuu



Series: lieyuu’s favorites [8]
Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Kinda, M/M, Meet-Cute, Moving On, Multiverse, Non-Linear Narrative, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Relationship, Relationship Study, Soul-Searching, Sova-centric (VALORANT), Temporary Character Death, a teensy bit, god i hate tagging this fic, listen its a long fic we cover a lot of bases, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 15:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30074334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blasphemyincarnate/pseuds/blasphemyincarnate, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lieyuu/pseuds/lieyuu
Summary: Sova had crossed the rift on a frostbitten Saturday in one world, and landed in a balmy Sunday afternoon in the other. Both worlds had long since moved on from counting the days, so no one knew what it was except the ghosts tied to the trees.On the coasts of England, he imagined he saw the beach where it had all begun, and he imagined he saw the small, quiet graveyard where the love of his life would be sleeping forever. At least it would be peaceful.or; Sova falls in love, loses it, jumps through a multidimensional portal, falls in love again, and finds himself somewhere along the way.
Relationships: Jett & Sova (VALORANT), Phoenix/Sova (VALORANT), Raze & Sova (VALORANT)
Series: lieyuu’s favorites [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083761
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. PART ONE: THE BODY IN THE STREET

**Author's Note:**

> lieyuu readers: hi! this is a valorant fic! enjoy :) 
> 
> blasphemyincarnate readers: hello! lieyuu is my other account which i've been posting on recently (mainly mcyt). i've had this fic written for awhile and have finally gotten around to posting it - i'm co-creatoring it between my accounts as i plan to move my fics over to lieyuu at some point. if you're interested in seeing more of what i write (regardless of fandom) pls sub there :)
> 
> note: this fic was written pre-yoru, basically right after skye was added to the game. yeah it was a few months ago lol

**PART ONE: THE BODY IN THE STREET**

There’s a body in the street. That isn’t… that isn’t right. Something’s wrong. Bodies don’t belong in streets. Especially not this one. 

There’s a body in the street. Whose is it?

~

Sova had crossed the rift on a frostbitten Saturday in one world, and landed in a balmy Sunday afternoon in the other. Both worlds had long since moved on from counting the days, so no one knew what it was except the ghosts tied to the trees.

The rift was a pulsing royal blue split in the world, an overripe fruit leaking lightning and the remains of the Almighty’s Garden of Eden. It was out of place, unnatural; carried a sort of delicate salvation within itself, like it offered a home to whoever would come, and it knew only the desperate would.

Sova had come a long way to find it. He didn’t know what he hoped to find on the other side, be it a world at peace or his lost loved ones or some kind of void. He just knew that with nothing left in his world to pursue, and with rumors of the rift leading to a better one, there was only one place to go.

The arrow he shot passed through neatly, without so much as a ripple. The rift had made a noise, a sort of buzzing, as it disappeared. It rippled and shimmered and resettled with nothing to show for its dramatics.

Sova had turned back for one last look at the world he was abandoning. In his mind’s eye, he could see the last few traces of civilization, streets filled with freedom fighters and wartime refugees alike.

Past them, on the coasts of England, he imagined he saw the beach where it had all begun, and he imagined he saw the small, quiet graveyard where the love of his life would be sleeping forever. At least it would be peaceful.

Sova wasn’t one for dramatics. He didn’t whisper a goodbye for the wind to carry away, and he didn’t cry. He just looked out towards what he was leaving behind, nodded once, and then turned and stepped through the rift. 

~

There’s a body in the street, but there’s a man, too. He kneels over it; maybe he’s cradling its head. They’re illuminated, _framed_ , by the roaring fires behind them.

The _fires_ , lighting the world gold, air hazy from smoke and stolen souls. The man and his body; the body and its man. They lay, artfully spread, in the center of this Phlegethon flood, an unholy burial ground, and mourn.

~

Sova only lets go of his hand for a second, really. Just a second, to peek around the next corner, to make sure it’s clear to run. The fires are still blazing behind them, barely drowning out the shouts. London has fallen, and she’ll take them down with her if they don’t get out fast.

It’s a second too long.

Sova is just starting to say, “I think it’s clear,” when Grant lets out a shaky gasp that’s barely audible over the cacophony of noise.

“Sova, love,” he says, gasping a little. “I think we have a problem.”

Sova turns around, and Grant is staring down at himself, where blood is seeping through his ash-dusted shirt. It’s not enough ash, not enough to hide the horror - the shirt was white, and now it’s red, furious crimson red. 

Grant stumbles, and Sova reaches out to catch him, lowering them both down to the ground slowly. It briefly crosses his mind that this is almost cliche, almost like a movie, but Grant is no maiden and Sova… Sova is no hero.

“Um,” Grant says, eyes unfocused and hand dripping blood. “What was it - what was it Anna said, about gunshot wounds, where they go, how they k -”

“Don't worry about it,” Sova says, even though they both know better than to think Grant is surviving this one. They’ve seen their fair share. They’ve _taken_ their fair share. This isn’t fair. This is just cruel. 

He lets out a breath, pretending he isn’t going to cry. “Do not worry about it,” he says again, but it comes out in a whisper.

“I didn’t even see who it was,” Grant whispers, equally quiet. He laughs, a little wet, a little choked up. Sova wonders if he’ll cough up blood. They always do, in the movies. “I didn’t even - Sova, I don’t want to die.”

“You will be fine,” Sova says, not sure if he should be hating himself for managing to stay dry-eyed. “You will be fine.”

“Sova,” Grant says again, a little desperate. His bloody hand reaches up and stains Sova’s shirt. Sova finds he doesn’t mind - the grip is tight, but weakening. “Sova, I don’t want to die - I don’t want to -”

“You are not going to die here,” Sova says, gently rearranging them on the ground. Grant’s head is in his lap. Sova cards his fingers through his hair. “Don’t worry. You will not die here.”

Grant relaxes at that, lowering his hand to let it settle over his wound. “Good,” he breathes out shakily, eyes finding Sova’s. “Good. I’m not going to die here.”

“No, you’re not,” Sova agrees, holding him close. Grant smiles at that, and begins to lift his hand.

They say death is easy, like slipping away into sleep. Grant’s eyes don’t close, so Sova closes them for him. Sleep is so much more peaceful in the dark.

It’s like a Shakespearean tragedy, heartbreak in five parts. There is the body, the fires, the bloody hands, the bullet, and the closed eyes. The curtain drops on sharp flecks of obsidian, still lava-warm, still cooling.

~

The man carries the body a ways, and buries it in a little beachside graveyard. He has carried it for a long time, to bury it here. His hands are bloody, and bits of dirt from the gravedigging cling to them.

He washes them clean in the sea.

~

Grant and Phoenix smile differently, and it’s a fact Sova has known since day one. Grant smiled calmly, like he was completely in control, a hint of teasing in the upturned corner of his mouth, but full of love nevertheless. Phoenix smiles wider than Grant ever did, but his eyes are often shadowed, and sometimes he smirks like he doesn’t really know how. 

The morning is icy cold, like golden sands of a dream long-gone, like blood lit by firelight in wartime, when Sova wakes and realizes he can no longer remember Grant’s smile.

The epiphany hits him like a truck, and Raze is the one who finds him curled next to his bed, gasping for air. It’s not really so much that he can’t remember Grant’s smile anymore - it’s more so that it’s merging with Phoenix’s, and he can’t tell them apart.

“I’m forgetting him,” is all he manages to gasp out when Raze, panicked, kneels next to him and asks _what’s wrong,_ _querido, what’s wrong?_

Eventually, Raze plucks her headphones off from around her neck and onto his head, and puts on some music - one of her slower options, which still isn’t very slow, Sova realizes later - with a steady beat and deep bass. They sit in silence for a while, Raze fiddling with the keychain she pulls out of her pocket, until Sova is breathing again.

“All good, _querido?_ ” she asks hesitantly, lifting one side of the headphones off his ear. Sova lets out a shaky breath and leans back against the bed.

“Yes,” he says, though he certainly doesn’t _feel_ all good. He isn’t really sure he’s ever going to feel all good again. “Thank you, Raze.”

Raze smiles brightly and stands up, offering her hand out to him. “Anything for _minha familia,_ ” she says, jerking her head towards the door. “Come on, let’s go blow some stuff up.”

Sova’s brows furrow. “I do not think you should -” he starts, but Raze is already tugging him out the door and towards her lab, laughing and cheerfully shouting something about how rules were made to be broken.

~

The murderer does not know he is a murderer. The prize pig does not know it is Christmas dinner.

The revolutionaries think their cause just; the tyrants think themselves gods of reason. The bullet flies as true as it's told. It’s only illegal if you get caught.

The murderer does not know he is a murderer. He dies innocent. 

~

On Sova’s old commute, back in that other, normal time when commutes were still a thing that existed, there had been a half-white, half-Korean girl with blue hair. Everyone called her Crazy Jenny, and the first time they met, she looked at him in a decidedly sane way and said, “Bonjour, _luchik_.”

Sova didn’t respond. The pet name was sheer coincidence, he decided, and strangers with blue hair on subways were not quite meant to be trusted.

She looked at him sharply for a moment, then crooned, “It’s not the ship of Theseus, _luchik_ , it’s King Solomon’s other baby. Learn that, it’ll save you pain.”

Sova hadn’t responded, and made the second decision that she was, in fact, crazy.

A year and half later, the wars broke out. 

~

When a play ends, the curtains close, and then they will rise again for the cast to bow and accept the crowd’s adoring cheers.

What’s to be done when there’s no cast left to bow? When the audience is one tired man? Haggard, circles beneath his eyes, dirt-specked blood on his hands.

Saltwater and fire. Body and bullet.

When a play ends, the audience will leave.

He will leave.

~

“Fancy seeing you here, sailor,” a voice says. Sova turns from where he’s staring out at the water to see the man from the other table in the cafe standing behind him. His feet are bare, his hands are in his pockets, and he smiles an easy smile, like he knows the universe will bend to his will.

“Hello,” Sova says, because he isn’t quite sure what to say. He has never been quite sure, not to pretty boys with voices smooth as water and clear, bright smiles. “I… yes. I suppose.”

The man steps up next to him and nods out at the beach. It’s silent for a moment, and Sova goes back to staring at the small boat in the distance with the blue decals.

“The view’s nice,” the man says, offhandedly. Sova tears his eyes away from the - happy couple? wedding party? - to see the man looking at him, smile faded but expression still kind. Sova chooses his next words carefully, not entirely sure the man is talking about the grey water and equally grey skies. 

“Yes,” he responds slowly, eyes taking him in. “It is.”

The man’s eyes soften ever so slightly; they crinkle as he breaks out into a smile and holds out a hand. “I’m Grant, Grant Galloway.”

Sova takes his hand. It’s calloused, and Grant’s silver rings are cold against his skin. “I’m Sova,” he offers.

Grant doesn’t let go, so neither does he. Their eyes meet, and Sova smiles too.

~

**interlude (s.)**

Sage isn’t entirely sure when HQ decided to start sending her out on field missions alongside the agents she was directing, but if she must go, she’s happy to have Skye be the one at her side.

The Australian woman’s presence soothes her rattled nerves infinitely, especially when faced with the newest rift. Sage can _feel_ the pain of the world on the other side, ripped apart by war and famine and death. She stands as close as she dares and frowns.

Skye pats her back comfortingly .”It’s alright, mate,” she says. “We’ll be outta here in no time at all, and I’ll give the old man a good talking to, make sure he sends someone else on the next one. I think Jett could use some adventure. She and Phoenix are on the verge of fighting or fucking, who knows.”

“It’s not exactly our business,” Sage points out drily, though she leans a little closer to Skye to show her appreciation. “As long as they don’t get in the way.”

Skye pulls a face. “I do _not_ want to think about where they might consider to be ‘not in the way’. Come on, anything else we need to get done here? None of what we’ve thrown through has come back and nothing else has come thro -”

Just as Skye turns to look at Sage, an arrow comes whistling through the rift. Sage instinctively puts her hands up, the air crystallizing into a protective shield before her. The arrow bounces off harmlessly, and she lets the wall drop. 

Skye stands slowly, pulling herself out of the crouch she dropped into a moment before. “Alright,” she says, inching forward and pulling the arrow towards her with a tow. “I stand corrected.” She picks it up and hands it to Sage, who frowns at it and turns it over in her hand.

It’s a very high-tech arrow, the tip made of some sort of metal, blue circuitry visible beneath the shifting plates. Electricity sparks when she taps it, holograms of blue lighting up with symbols she doesn’t understand, but it otherwise behaves like a perfectly regular arrow. “Interesting,” she says, holding it up to the light. Skye follows her gaze.

“Not really,” she says, plucking it out of Sage’s hold. “It’s an arrow. Nothing special.”

“It’s a technological marvel of an arrow,” Sage says, rolling her eyes.

“Still just an arrow,” Skye says. “What’s this thing gonna do against a bullet?”

Sage can’t come up with an answer to that, and Skye pats her head triumphantly.

The rift begins buzzing again, and they both turn their attention back to it. “You better hope that’s just an arrow,” Sage says, as a dark shape begins forming in the pulsing blue. “Or that whoever shot it is a very kind android.”

“Well,” Skye says, hefting her gun. “Either way, bullets beat arrows.” She lifts her wrist, where her osprey tattoo begins glowing gold. “Or hawk beats human.”

The shape wavers, and then solidifies. A man falls to his knees from the rift, blinking disorientedly. Sage can feel the determination, born of grief and heartache, rolling off him in waves. Alongside it, a seed of hope he refuses to nurture. 

“Oh,” Skye says, and her tattoo fades back to black. She lowers the gun. “Well, that _is_ interesting.”

The man looks up sharply, one pupil the same piercing blue, the same shifting circuitry as the arrow. “Who are you?” he asks with a strange accent, a mix of Russian and British. Sage blinks at him curiously and crouches down to meet his eyes.

The man looks lost. Sage can feel the confusion sharpening into suspicion and anxiety, and knows people well enough to know that he’s likely cautioning himself off trusting them. “We are with VALORANT,” she says. “We came to investigate this rift in our world. Are you from the other side?”

The man looks back towards it and says, “Yes,” like he isn’t sure. He straightens himself up to his full height, shrugging his furred cloak off. “Much warmer over here.”

Skye squints up at the sun like it’ll tell her something. “Is it?” she asks, folding her arms. “It doesn’t feel that warm.”

The man smiles slightly at her, vaguely amused. “Well, considering the other side of that rift leads to the snowy mountains in Russia, yes, it is warmer over here.”

Skye blinks at him for a second, then laughs. “Must be.”

The man is settling, growing comfortable, having seemed to accept that this is what he’ll have to face in this new world. “My name is Sova,” he says.

Sage and Skye exchange a look, and Skye grins at him. “Well, Sova,” she says. “Welcome to Earth 42.”


	2. PART TWO: GHOSTS AROUND THE CORNERS

**PART TWO: GHOSTS AROUND THE CORNERS**

Letting it slip that Sova knows of Viper’s old interest in activism is one of the greatest mistakes he’s made in this new world. He finds himself pinned dangerously between Viper’s carefully guarded secrecy and Cypher’s pointed interest in knowing everything about everyone.

Cypher doesn’t bother hiding the glint of curiosity reflecting in the blue lights that function as his mask’s eyes, and Viper has no patience for the way Sova begins stumbling over his words or the way his eyes flicker between the other four agents in the room. “What is it?” she snaps, her voice reminiscent of the sound latex gloves make when pulled tight against skin. “Hurry it up, we don’t have all day.”

“It is nothing,” Sova says stiffly, shifting his bow on his back.

“Then just say it,” Cypher says, leaning forward. He unsettles Sova, just like Omen does, but in a distinctly different way. Omen is the shadow of death, a reminder of the worst case scenario. Cypher is the smiling executioner. “If it is truly nothing, then it should be easy, no?”

There is a long pause, and then Sova starts, hesitantly, “Our worlds are quite similar. Some of you have counterparts.”

He’s distinctly aware of Phoenix’s gaze burning into his back, but Cypher and Viper remain calm, with their flat, dead eyes. Snakes and spiders. 

“Well? Tell us about it,” Viper says, sounding almost annoyed, though Sova can hear the faint undertone of excitement. She is, at heart, a scientist. Sova is her perfect specimen. 

“Who? How?” Cypher asks, and Sova stares blankly at him before realizing. He wants to know who Sova had known, but worse, _how_ he had known them. It’s a death sentence to answer. Sova isn’t entirely sure whose.

“Well, Skye had a mildly popular Twitter page,” he says. It feels ridiculous to start with Skye. It _is_ ridiculous to start with Skye. They don’t know it yet, but Sova does. He knows that they’re waiting on the grand finale. The one he knew personally.

“A young woman named Sabine and her partner - Elias, I believe - was a famous social activist,” he continues, and darts a glance at Viper. She doesn’t flinch at her name, but her eyes narrow when he says Elias. “And -”

_There was a man named Grant Galloway, and he was the love of my life._

_There was a man named Grant Galloway, and he was my best friend._

_We were casual acquaintances. Roommates. Coworkers. Lovers._

A thousand different versions of one kaleidoscope truth. Sova doesn’t know which one to look at.

“And Grant Galloway,” he says at last, and remains carefully neutral when he hears Phoenix’s sharp intake of breath. “We were friends.” 

_Friends._ It’s simple, safe, but the idea that Grant had been nothing more than a _friend_ fills Sova’s lungs with water, his head with thunderclouds. 

Phoenix leans forward in his seat and props his arms up on the table. “Ah, we were mates, yeah?” He winks and adds, “No wonder we get along so well, now - it was meant to be.”

“Yes,” Sova echoes, searching Phoenix’s face for any hint of what once was. “Meant to be.”

~

“Did I make it big? C’mon, Sova, tell me I did.”

_You didn’t make it big, but you made it home._

_You made it home._

_You made_ our _home._

“Yes,” he says softly. “You did.”

~

Perhaps for the sake of dramatic irony, Phoenix is not among the agents Sova is first introduced to. Reyna is there, and she wraps a protective arm around Sage, who goes to her side willingly; and Skye, obviously, alongside Brimstone and Raze and Omen. It’s the last of these people who unnerves him the most, especially when the wraith simply nods in his direction before dissipating into shadow.

Instead, he meets Phoenix - rather informally - when he and Jett stumble into the mess hall, with wind-tousled hair and wild, breathless laughs. Sova is staring down at his food politely when the doors push open, and a loud female voice, with a hint of some sort of European accent, cackles, “You just can’t keep up!”

Sova looks up towards the noise, as do many of the other agents sitting in the room, and whatever Phoenix responds with is lost in the sudden roaring of the blood in his ears, in the racing of his heart. 

Grant has, at this point, been dead for seven months, one week, and four days. Sova had thought the mountains were cold, but they can’t compare to the way he feels now, blood turning to icy water and threatening to freeze the very air in his lungs.

“Excuse me,” he mumbles hastily, standing up and shoving his half-eaten plate away. He ignores the way Sage calls after him, and Jett’s surprised Korean swearing when he pushes past her, and the way Phoenix stares as he brushes past him on his way out the door.

Seven months, one week, and four days, and all of a sudden it feels like it was just yesterday, like Sova was still staring at his hands, wondering if he should wash the blood off.

~

The hundredth night Sova dreams of Grant is long and clear. In the dream, they’re standing on the beach again, but the water is brilliant blue and the sky clear. Grant is laying next to him with a smile, and in the distance, he can see two girls playing volleyball, blue and black ponytails swinging in the sun.

Grant is settled onto a black and white towel, hands folded up behind his head and eyes closed. He opens an eye when Sova moves and squints up at him. “Come on, babe, sit down,” he drawls, gesturing to the blue towel next to him. “Or, you know, take a step to the left. Block the sun for me.”

Sova sits down on the towel slowly, looking around him all the while. Something doesn’t seem right. With a start, he realizes that it has nothing to do with the scenery, nothing to do with the situation itself. Instead -

“Since when have you called me that?” Sova asks amusedly, looking down at the man lying next to him. “I thought it was always ‘love’.”

Grant swings an arm out from behind his head to block the sun, and props himself up on the other. “What, babe? I dunno, guess Jett’s rubbing off on me.”

The day is sunny, and the sand warm. Sova feels awfully cold all of a sudden. “Who?” he asks slowly.

Grant laughs and lies back down. “Jett? White hair, flies, knows curse words in six different languages? You haven’t forgotten her already?”

“Eight languages,” Sova corrects on instinct. “You’ve never met Jett.”

Grant’s face clears of all emotion, and he sits up almost robotically, resting his arms on his knees and turning to look at Sova, fully, properly. “Babe,” he says, slowly, like talking to a child, “I’ve known Jett longer than I’ve known you.”

The day is sunny, and the sand is warm, and Sova is so, so cold. It’s not Grant on the towel next to him, and it feels like betrayal to have taken so long to notice.

It’s Phoenix.

~

“There’s a rift out there, they say,” Crazy Jenny says. She rocks back and forth on the steps leading down to the subway station. She smiles shakily up at Sova and rocks herself a little harder, like it’s comforting. “Royal blue. Leads to another world.” She doesn’t explain who ‘they’ are.

“Oh,” Sova says, voice hoarse from disuse. He clears it and tries again. “Are you going?”

“No, no,” Jenny muttered, shaking her head. Her blue hair falls over her face, and she blows it out of the way. “It’s not for me. Not for me. _Luchik_ , what do prophets do when their cursed prophecies come true?”

Sova has no clue how to answer that, and doesn’t even want to bother trying to make sense of Jenny today. “I don’t know.”

“Do you think people kill them? What did they do to Cassandra?” Jenny asks, looking up at him. Suddenly, she looks awfully young. She laughs wildly and stands up, shaking herself out. “What’s a doomsayer supposed to do at the end of the world? What’s God’s herald meant to do when there’s no more God?”

Sova blinks down at her. The numbness is settling, but confusion breaks its icy crust. “What,” he says. “Are you calling yourself a doomsayer?”

Jenny shrugs and sits down on the railing. She balances delicately. “Maybe, maybe,” she says. “I’m sure someone calls me that, at least. Ghosts, probably. I might as well join them.”

Sova swallows. His hands feel dry from the salt. His throat feels dry from the grief. “The people calling you that, or the ghosts?”

Jenny shrugs again, and smiles at him. She doesn’t look sad at all. “Both? That seems a decent choice. Tell her hi, will you?”

Sova frowns and asks, “Who?” but Jenny is already disappearing into the depths of the earth. 

~

“Sova!” someone shouts from down the hall. Sova turns around to see Jett just turning the corner, and she stops there for a second before looking calculatingly at him. Then, with a burst of wind, she’s at his side. She grins up at him and says, “Would that be classified as a misuse of abilities?”

Sova blinks down at her and says, “Phoenix heats up his leftovers in his room. Sage barricades her door when she does not wish to be bothered. I think we can let this one slide.”

“Don’t forget the time Skye harassed Viper with actual vipers for a week,” Jett says cheerfully, like they don’t still occasionally find a stray snakeskin around the compound.

Sova nods agreeably. “True. What did you need to talk to me about?”

Jett blinks at him in confusion for a second, then seems to remember. “Oh!” she says, patting her pockets like she might find something in them. “Uh, I wrote it down, hold on -”

She’s looking for a long time. Sova isn’t entirely sure what he can do besides stand and watch her, but it’s getting awkward. He’s about to offer she find it some other time when she pulls a slip of paper out of her inner jacket triumphantly. “Aha!” she says, and offers it to him with a flourish.

Sova accepts the paper. In neat, blocky letters, it says, _two heavens, two hells; two worlds, two people. don’t forget, luchik._

“What,” Sova says. In the back of his mind, he remembers one of the many last conversations he’s had with people over the years. He’d thought it was the last ramblings of a crazed, lonely girl, abandoned by her world. But, he supposes, every legend does have a grain of truth to it. 

“I dunno,” Jett says, shrugging. “Sometimes I’m overcome with the urge to say weird things to people. I thought of this one last night. Wrote it down because I have notoriously bad memory. You know.”

Sova looks at her for a long time. She had always felt familiar to him, but he’d written it off as her boisterous and friendly personality, leaping onto his back at random moments and shouting agent names in excitement.

Now, though…

“Jett,” Sova says, like he’s saying it for the first time. “Is that your real name?”

Jett blinks owlishly at him. “Well, I guess not,” she says. “I mean, my legal name almost everywhere is Korean, but I used to go by a different English name. Before - you know.”

“Was it Jenny?”

Jett laughs and shakes her head. “Am I that predictable?” she asks, shoving her hands in her pockets. “Yeah, I was Jenny for a really long time. Technically Jennifer. I’ve had a lot of names.”

Sova hums thoughtfully and looks down at the paper. “Thank you for the advice,” he says, tucking it into his pocket. “In my world, we would have called you crazy.”

It’s an inside joke. Jett laughs like she gets it, and maybe she does. “Well,” she says, looking back towards the way she came. “I’m glad I’m here in this one, then. Catch ya later, Sova.”

She disappears down the hallway in a flurry of wind. Sova breathes out. There are ghosts around every corner; they leave little in their wake, save a passing breeze or golden spark. 

~

“Hey,” Phoenix says. Sova sees him approach out of the corner of his eye, carrying with him none of his usual cockiness or energy - instead, he’s subdued, apprehensive, clearly nervous about something. He nods to Sova and rests his arms on the railing next to him.

“Hello,” Sova greets, wondering if this is where Phoenix will confront him for what he’d told Viper and Cypher.

‘I just wanted to ask,” Phoenix starts, then stops. He works at his mouth for a second, seeming to struggle to find the words. “Just -” he stops again.

“Yes?” Sova prompts, after a long moment of silence.

“That - that other me,” Phoenix says. He swallows audibly and refuses to meet Sova’s eyes, staring out over the canals instead. “Did he - did he have family?”

Sova blinks. It isn’t what he was expecting. “Yes,” he says, remembering Anna. “A sister.”

“Oh,” Phoenix responds, strangely choked. He inhales sharply and asks, too evenly, “How is she?”

“Last I checked,” Sova says, watching Phoenix carefully. “She was doing well. Alive. Do you -?”

Phoenix laughs, humourlessly, awkwardly. It’s more for show than anything. “Yeah,” he says, voice somewhat high. “Uh, yeah. Hazel. I haven’t - I haven’t seen her in awhile.” 

“I see,” Sova says, turning his attention out towards the canals too. The rivers flow evenly. “How is she?”

“Fine,” Phoenix says. He darts a glance in Sova’s direction, then looks away again. “Last I heard. Just - she hasn’t spoken to me since the fires. I shouldn’t be surprised. Her fiancee died in them.” 

_So did you,_ Sova thinks. _So did you._

“Her name is Anna,” he says, instead of what he’s thinking. “If it makes you feel better. My Grant’s sister. Anna. Not Hazel.”

Phoenix stares at him openly, then laughs, surprisingly wet. “You know, Sova,” he says, shaking his head and smiling, looking outwards again. “That does make me feel better.”

~

Jett’s words echo in Sova’s head. They mix with Jenny’s, the other Jenny’s, bouncing off his skull. _Ship of Theseus. Two heavens. King Solomon’s other baby. Two hells._

_Solomon, worlds, Theseus, people. Theseus, Solomon._

_Don’t forget, luchik._

The revelation comes quietly. It’s almost curious, Sova thinks, that the world has not stopped spinning, that the sun has not blinked out. Nothing has changed except for what he knows now.

“King Solomon’s other baby indeed,” he mutters to himself in the dark. Perhaps Jenny wasn’t as crazy as she seemed. He pulls the bedcovers off of himself and heads out to the shooting range.

As expected, Phoenix is there. He isn’t shooting - rather, he holds a silenced pistol, turning it over in his hands. A small flame teases up the back of his left hand - it illuminates the deep grey metal, lights Phoenix’s face as much as it shadows it. Sova slows, and wonders if he should just turn around and leave Phoenix to whatever is haunting him tonight.

He’s just about to turn around when Phoenix looks up, and smiles gently. It looks out of place on his face, its ragged edges not quite fitting, but he’s trying. “Sova,” he says. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Sova is thrown, for a second. _To a degree_ , he remembers. _This is Grant._

_Only to a degree._

“Fancy seeing you here, indeed,” Sova echoes. “Lovely night.”

Phoenix snorts, and _that_ looks right on him. Sova knows, now, who that gentle smile would’ve fit on. But that was another life, another love. “Yes, very,” he says, looking out towards the targets again. “Better with your company.”

One of them will have to break this fragile peace. Sova doesn’t want to force that part on Phoenix, too, so he takes a deep breath and says, “Phoenix. I apologize for what I said earlier.”

Phoenix blinks, like it wasn’t what he was expecting. Maybe it wasn’t. If Sova has learned anything from the last twelve hours, it’s that Phoenix rarely expects people to treat him right.

“Oh,” he says. “You don’t have to - you don’t have to apologize.”

Sova smiles faintly. “Don’t I?”

Phoenix shifts his weight. “No,” he says, sounding somewhat more confident in himself. “No, you don’t. If anything, I should be. No point in pushing you like that.”

“Perhaps we both owe each other a few apologies.” Sova says. He takes a small step forward, and Phoenix looks up at him. His eyes are unreadable.

“Maybe,” Phoenix mutters, eyes drifting down to Sova’s lips. “Shall I start?”

“You already have,” Sova says. “I believe it’s my turn.”

Phoenix sets the gun down slowly, still looking at Sova. He nods.

Sova takes another slow breath. “I apologize,” he begins, quiet and slow. “For projecting a past that was not yours onto you. And I apologize for mistaking the two of you for the same.”

Phoenix breathes out, almost like a sigh. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. Then, winks. “Must be our striking good looks.”

Sova can feel the laugh bubbling out of him, and he doesn’t try to stop it. Phoenix grins widely when he sees Sova laughing, too, then they’re both laughing with abandon. “That wasn’t even that funny,” Phoenix says, once he’s calmed down. “I’ve much better jokes.”

“Relief laughter,” Sova suggests. Softly, “Hello.”

“Hey,” Phoenix responds.

The moon is bright. Sova looks at Phoenix, and Phoenix looks at Sova. When he smiles, it no longer feels like a betrayal to smile back.

~

**epilogue (e.)**

Sova moves around the small kitchen delicately, looking for the kettle. Grant smiles sappily at him from where he’s settled on the couch. “Top left cupboard, love.”

Sova opens the cupboard. The teapot is, in fact, in there. “Oh,” he says, taking it out and staring at the cupboard suspiciously. “Thank you.”

“Ah, what would you do without me?” Grant says, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. _What would I do without you?_ he thinks, fondly. 

“Carry on with life as usual,” Sova deadpans. The stove turns on, and then Sova is at the couch, lifting up Grant’s legs to make space for himself on the couch. 

Grant props himself up on his elbows and pouts at Sova. “You don’t mean that,” he protests, swinging himself around to rest his head on Sova’s lap instead. He blinks at him, trying and failing to hide a laugh. “You would cry. And perhaps wail for a bit. Lament my leaving you proper, like a Victorian maiden.”

Sova rolls his eyes, but it's fond. He cards his fingers through Grant’s hair and turns the radio on. “As you wish,” he says, leaning back. “Would you have me as a Victorian maiden?”

Grant makes a noise of contemplation. “Depends,” he says. “As long as it's still my Sova beneath all those petticoats.” 

“Well, I doubt it would be,” Sova says amusedly. He shifts slightly, and Grant sits up to straddle his lap, arms looped around Sova’s neck. “Given, the Victorian maiden.”

Grant rolls his eyes. “I mean in spirit, love,” he says. “You know I would have you in any body, I’m not so shallow a man. So long you are happy. Scratch that, actually. I needn’t even have you, so long you are happy.”

“Is that so?” Sova murmurs, looking up at Grant. “Nothing else? No riches, no fame?”

“Sova, love, above all, I want you happy,” Grant murmurs, pressing closer. He rests his forehead on Sova’s, and their breaths mingle. “With me by your side, or someone else, or no one entirely. I will have you happy.”

The teapot begins whistling. Sova closes his eyes.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments and kudos much appreciated <3


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